Requiem
by Hoperise
Summary: Ned discovered his mutation when he was nine. He was lucky enough to find a partner that thought his power was a gift, not an abomination - even more so when his powers brought back his childhood sweetheart. But nothing lasts forever. There's nothing left for him in Papen County. This is the end. Or is it? {Character death, dark themes}
1. Mancando

Requiem

Setting: Three years after PD Season 2. A few years back in the 'corrected' post-DOFP universe.

Summary: Ned discovered his mutation when he was nine. He was lucky enough to find a partner that thought his power was a gift, not an abomination - even more so when his powers brought back his childhood sweetheart. But nothing lasts forever. There's nothing left for him in Papen County. This is the end. Or is it?

Warnings: Angst like whoa. Character death. Suicide and overall dark themes at the beginning.

* * *

><p><strong><em>mancando<em>**

_to grow quieter and die away_

* * *

><p>He knew nothing that good could last forever. Not for him.<p>

Chuck was dead. His secret was out. Emerson smuggled him out of town, but it was only a matter of time before they caught up with him.

At last, they had him cornered in an alley. Exactly where they'd wanted him this whole time. Bloodshot gray eyes scanned crumbling brick walls as he clutched the burning stitch in his ribs. Not even a fire escape or a dumpster. They'd cut him off from escape routes, from anyone who might support him. He was heading for an operating table in a windowless laboratory. There was no way out, Ned realized.

Long shadows blocked the hazy orange streetlight at the end of the alley. He swallowed heavily.

No way out, except-

Trembling fingers reached to the small of his back for the revolver Emerson had given him. Two hands clutched the grip and he raised the gun. "Don't come any closer," he warned, voice breaking. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face.

"Easy, kid." The man rumbled. He was a solid block of mutton chops and muscle, a few inches shorter than Ned. He looked uncomfortable in the stiff business suit, but not the situation. Figures. He looked like the type who'd killed someone in an alley before.

"We don't want to hurt you, Ned." The female agent said evenly, her voice liquid and reassuring. Her red hair burned copper in the streetlight. She was the distraction. She'd trick him into letting his guard down while she dosed him with enough ketamine to drop a horse.

A semi-hysterical laugh escaped his throat. "I'll bet you don't. I hear I'm a valuable commodity." His eyes flickered from one agent to the other and he removed the safety.

"You think you can stop me with that?" The man scoffed. He stepped closer, light reflecting off a pair of metal blades in each hand.

Ned clenched his jaw. He thought of Chuck - how beautiful she'd been in her last moments, how pooling tears had made her gray-green eyes sparkle like a forest after a storm. "All I need is one shot."

With that, he tucked the muzzle of the gun under his chin and shut his eyes.

Three things happened at the same time.

Firstly, Ned's finger brushed against the trigger.

Secondly, the Muscle released a bellow and stepped towards him.

Thirdly, the revolver was wrenched from his hand.

Ned opened his eyes to see the gun rattle across the asphalt and land twenty feet away.

He was not a violent man, but he'd been pushed far enough. He had been alone for so long. They'd stolen the one person who he'd dared open his heart to. They stole the sun from his sky and he'd forgotten how to walk in the dark. He couldn't make it through his worst nightmare. Not alone.

He needed the man's knife. He could get in a few quick thrusts and bleed out before the ambulance came.

The Muscle raised his hands. "Let's talk about this-"

Ned roared and hurled himself at the man in a flurry of uncoordinated fists and rage. He felt something crunch as his knuckles met what felt like a brick wall. The Muscle raised his hands to block. Metal flashed in the distant streetlight and triple slashes appeared on Ned's inner arms.

Not good enough.

He grasped the Muscle's wrist -were those knives coming out of his knuckles?- and wrenched it toward his abdomen with every ounce of his 190-pound frame.

"Stop!" The female agent shouted, rushing forward.

And Ned did.

Not of his own volition. An invisible force froze him in place, pressing tight against his skin. He struggled, muscles straining as he desperately tried to run away. His eyes were wide and his breath came in short pants.

This wasn't happening. They couldn't take him. Not now.

His fingers peeled themselves from the Muscle's arm. The blades receded into the shorter man's hands and he stepped away with a sniff, his brow furrowing.

The female agent stepped closer, making steady eye contact. She pressed a cool hand to his cheek. His breath caught in his throat, jaw working furiously to resist. His heart pounded as panic threatened to take over.

And then she spoke to him. If she hadn't been this close, in the darkness he wouldn't have been able to see that her mouth wasn't moving.

Yet he clearly heard her voice inside his head.

_'Ned, trust me. We're the good guys. We're here to help you.'_

* * *

><p><strong>notes.<strong>

I love the idea of Ned the mutant. This crossover makes so much sense in my head.

EDIT 2 (12-11-14): HOLY CRAP. I didn't realize the former title was also the tag for the next season of Broadchurch. It definitely wasn't my intention to copy that, so I changed the title. Hope you guys don't mind.

**Don't write the story. Live the story.**


	2. Accelerando

Requiem

Setting: Three years after PD Season 2. A few years back in the 'corrected' post-DOFP universe.

Summary: Ned discovered his mutation when he was nine. He was lucky enough to find a partner that thought his power was a gift, not an abomination - even more so when his powers brought back his childhood sweetheart. But nothing lasts forever. There's nothing left for him in Papen County. This is the end. Or is it?

Warnings: Angst like whoa. Character death. Suicide and overall dark themes at the beginning.

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><p><strong><em>accelerando<em>**

_gradually increasing the tempo_

* * *

><p>A galaxy of minds swirled before Charles, endless pinpricks of red light sorting themselves into the outlines of continents and cities.<p>

An anonymous tip delivered by -of all things- a carrier pigeon directed his attention to the matter. Disturbing whispers among sources close to the Purifiers had brought confirmation. The Purifiers believed they had discovered a mutant with the ability to bring the dead back to life.

The concept was almost laughable. A man of science, of rationality such as himself found it difficult to accept the the idea of resurrection. And yet, in his time researching and training mutant young people, he had yet to find a limit to their powers. Surely death was the one impassable barrier.

He'd been trying to track the man via Cerebro, but picking one unfamiliar mutant out of thousands via nothing more than reports of heightened activity in a broad region of Pennsylvania was no simple task, even for a telepath as experienced as he.

Mighty generators hummed in unison. Ghost images flickered across the room, visual representations of the minds he sorted through. His mental touch brushed feather-light from mind to mind, examining dozens at a time. He sought not a specific pattern of psionic activity, but the emotional state of one being hunted. Using that as a magnetic pull, he could establish a stronger connection.

At last, on the edges of Pittsburgh, there was a flash of energy and distantly he felt a human life fade.

And one of the minds that he was connected to erupted with pain.

Charles shifted his focus and the translucent image of a young man kneeling before a woman's body manifested before him. His shirt had been hastily slashed open from the sternum, a line of blood trickling its way down his chest, marred by an incomplete hand print.

He launched himself off the ground, breaking away from partially visible captors. He snatched a gun from one of their belts and fired repeatedly. More lights faded from Charles' perception. The man took several heaving breaths and sagged against a wall. His expression crumpled from stony determination to desperate hopelessness. Slowly he brought his hands to cover his face.

The professor pressed deeper into the the man's mind, seeking to access more specific thoughts and details to figure out where this scene was taking place.

Great shoulders shook and waves of agony rippled through the connection, into Charles' own mind.

Horror. Guilt.

_Chuck's dead Chuck's dead she's dead and it's all my fault._

Despair.

_I just thought my world would be better with you in it. What am I supposed to do now?_

Fear.

_Someone's coming._

The young man's head snapped up. Misery gave way to terror as he looked toward the source of the sound. He scrambled to his feet, giving the woman's body one last longing look before he began to run, past a street sign marking the intersection as 18th and Cathedral.

_She's gone. And there's no bringing her back this time._

Good enough. Pulling back, Charles began the deactivation procedure. He removed the headset and leaned back in his chair. He sighed deeply, raising a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. He was startled to find his cheeks wet. Stricken by the emotional transference, he cleared his throat to loosen the sudden tightness.

Charles reached for his communicator.

They needed to get to Pittsburgh.

* * *

><p><strong>notes.<strong>

If Bryan Singer can change the chronology of a universe, so can I.

**Don't write the story. Live the story.**


	3. Tremolo

Requiem

Setting: Three years after PD Season 2. A few years back in the 'corrected' post-DOFP universe.

Summary: Ned discovered his mutation when he was nine. He was lucky enough to find a partner that thought his power was a gift, not an abomination - even more so when his powers brought back his childhood sweetheart. But nothing lasts forever. There's nothing left for him in Papen County. This is the end. Or is it?

Warnings: Angst like whoa. Character death. Suicide and overall dark themes at the beginning.

* * *

><p><strong><em>tremolo<em>**

_rapid reiteration of a single note or alternating notes to produce a trembling effect, indicative of tension_

* * *

><p>Ned couldn't remember the last time he'd seen a sunrise.<p>

The sun broke over the hills of upstate New York, bathing naked tree branches in a rosy glow. They had been in hiding for months, sinking into the bustling anonymity of cities and only daring to go outside under cover of darkness. Their waking hours had melted into variations on the same eternal night, yet the rising sun gave him the sense of a narrative - as though the events of his life were progressing rather than shattering into pieces.

The winter morning was breathtaking in loveliness, but he was numb to it. He was overcome with a peculiar sensation of detachment, as though everything he experienced were happening to someone else.

A smothering weight had settled on his lungs, making it impossible to draw a full breath. When he stopped to think, his mind raced uncontrollably. He couldn't force himself to concentrate long enough to determine what he ought to be panicking about. All his anxieties blended into a monotonous buzz. It was too hard to pick out anything coherent. Rather than allowing himself to be swept away in the tide of screaming fear, he rose above. Ned stared into the distant fields, clinging lightly to the throb of the boxer's fracture in the fourth metacarpal of his left hand to keep from drifting away.

If he let himself go too far, he knew that he wouldn't want to come back. It hurt here.

He used to be extremely self-conscious. He'd taken great effort to keep himself contained - no swinging arms or grand gestures allowed. Olive used to joke about how wound up he was. He didn't feel wound up now. He felt hollow.

Ned stood by the window behind the desk in the grand office. His right hand was stuffed in his pocket, his left bound up in a sling covering a thick fabric splint. Following their solemn return flight, Jean had bandaged his arms up to his elbows and cleaned out the older wound on his chest. She'd also found him a plain black shirt to wear, his slashed and bloody clothing having taken up residence in the trash. They'd left him alone in the infirmary to get some rest.

Like that was going to happen anytime soon.

The door creaked shut and he heard a faint sound of a motor. "You must be Ned. I'm Professor Charles Xavier."

He turned reflexively, recognizing on some level that he owed this man a debt of gratitude. "Yes, sir." Ned replied softly. The man in the wheelchair was giving him a look of inscrutable concern. Habit attempted to force his face into the semblance of pleasantness. "Logan told me you're the one I have to thank for getting me out. So, thank you."

"You're quite welcome." The professor replied, directing his chair over to the desk. Wizened blue eyes examined Ned carefully, lingering on the bandages. "How are you feeling?"

Raw. Empty, except for a time bomb of tension in the pit of his stomach and the constricting band around his chest.

Ned half-shrugged. "Glad I'm not in a lab right now." He said in a dull voice.

Xavier did not return his levity. The older man's expression softened. "Ned, I want to take a moment and apologize for the actions of my associates, for any false impressions they might have given to provoke you. It was never my intention for you to come to harm. I am truly very sorry."

He brushed off the apology. "Logan was defending himself. It's not his fault that I'm like- this." Ned gestured vaguely at his frame, displaying bandages and indicating brokenness. He might as well face the facts: he had completely lost it in front of the two people best suited to help him.

"You suffered a traumatic experience and a profound loss. I can understand your reasoning." Xavier intoned. "Nevertheless, I want to assure you that you are safe here."

That remained to be seen. Ned looked at the floor. "How did you find me?" He asked, voice barely more than a whisper.

"How did we find you in Pittsburgh? It was a combination of superior telepathy and highly sophisticated tracking equipment, if I may pat myself on the back." The professor said, attempting a lighter tone.

"How did we find out about your situation? We have sources in proximity to some -shall we say- unsavoury figures. That, coupled with an anonymous tip, put us on your trail. Or at least, the tip was meant to be anonymous. Since I prefer to know who is trying to direct my focus, I did some research. I believe you know the tipster. One Emerson Cod?"

That final sentence was enough to draw him out of the fog. Ned's head snapped up to see Xavier smiling gently. His mouth opened, but no words came out. The knot in his stomach loosened and he felt his eyes burn. Emerson had been looking out for him all this time. What had he done to deserve such a friend?

"As soon as we are able to do so safely, I will see that you are put in contact with him." Xavier said quietly.

Overcome, Ned ducked his head. He nodded until his throat was clear enough to reply. "I don't know what to say. Thank you, Professor."

Xavier nodded graciously, folding his hands in his lap. "How we found you was relatively straightforward. The question that I'm certain you've been wondering is why."

A shiver ran up Ned's spine and he took an involuntary step back, jaw falling. He'd thought he'd escaped a life as an alive-again-making slave. He'd thought wrong. He didn't want to kill anybody else - not when he already had four bodies on his hands from the last few days alone. His stomach twisted and he wondered if he was going to be sick all over Xavier's expensive rug.

"Ned, please calm yourself, I haven't finished." The professor said, raising his hands in a non-threatening gesture. He waited for Ned to catch his breath before continuing.

"I want to be perfectly clear with you. My knowledge of your frankly remarkable powers is limited, but please know that I would never force you to use your powers against your will. Nor would I intentionally place you in a situation that would force you to use them. You are not here to build me an army."

Sucking in a breath, the pie maker nodded. He clenched his good hand into a fist, digging his nails into his palm to ground himself. He marveled for a moment - he stood a good two feet taller than the professor, yet he still felt dwarfed by the man's presence.

"With that being said, you and I both know that there are forces out there that do not share my regard for your agency. I confess, it is in my self-interest to ensure that your powers are not being used by those who wish painful death upon my students."

"Nobody's perfect. But I think it's better to be unselfish for selfish reasons rather than just plain selfish." Ned acknowledged, ducking his head.

Xavier waved a hand toward a comfortable sitting area to the side of his office. "Now, please. Would you care to have a seat? I would love to dispense with rumour and hear what your powers can do."

* * *

><p>"And then - she was gone."<p>

Fortified behind a blue-patterned teacup, Ned twiddled his spoon while he fought for words. The professor remained quiet, waiting with infinite patience as the minutes ticked by.

At last, Ned opened his mouth again. "If my powers have taught me anything, they showed me that everything has a cost. Every leaf, every fly, every apple and pigeon and person. Everything I bring to life takes from something else." His eyes stared into the Earl Gray, voice trembling. "Every- every happy moment. Everything has a cost."

Despair rumbled in his heart, the storm clouds threatening once more. "God, we were _so_ happy." He said. The weight on his chest sank further, constricting his breathing to shallow, halting inhalation.

"I'm so sorry, Ned." The professor said with quiet intensity, leaning forward in his chair and attempting to catch Ned's gaze. "I'm a scientist, not a philosopher; I can't speak to the nature of fates or gods. But from a mathematical standpoint, I think that your equation is missing a few variables."

"What's that supposed to mean?" He replied, skeptical.

Xavier set his saucer down, the porcelain knocking against wood perhaps a bit harder than the professor intended. Ned started at the noise. "I mean, it isn't your fault. The misfortunes and blows that life throws at you - you did not cause them, nor did you invite them. I think that you're being terribly hard on yourself. And if you'd grant me a presumptuous moment, I believe that there will come a day when you'll be happy again."

Ned made a desperate sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

"It won't be easy getting there. It will be hard. It will be hard for a long time, but then I suspect it will get a little easier."

Red-rimmed gray eyes met compassionate blue. His eyebrows drew together, conflicted. "I don't know if I can believe that."

Xavier folded his hands once more. "Then I shall believe it for the both of us. Do you think that you could, perhaps, trust me until that time?"

His breath hitched in his chest, but he finally nodded. Ned leaned back against the chair, taking a slow, shuddering breath as the weight eased up. "What am I supposed to do until then?"

"For now, rest. Recover. I can offer you my protection, a safe haven here at the Institute, at least until we can determine the next best alternative. Many of the students here are runaways, so there's a room that's been adequately prepared."

"I must ask you to abide by a couple of terms while you stay with us. Firstly, until those people searching for you settle down, I would ask that you not leave the campus. After a certain point, we could look into escorted trips, but I don't have to remind you how dangerous these men are. Does that sound reasonable?" Xavier asked, placing special emphasis on his question. It seemed quite important to the professor that this matter was agreeable.

Ned nodded slowly. It wasn't as though he had anywhere else to go, anyway.

"Good. Secondly, I would ask that, for the time being, you keep the nature of your mutation private."

He tilted his head to the side, raising an eyebrow. "You don't trust your students?"

The professor smiled in response to what was probably (definitely) a thoughtless question. "On the contrary, I have utmost faith in my students. However, the reality is that there are a number of powerful telepaths who, given the opportunity, might take the pertinent information from the students' minds. That would put us all in danger."

The pie maker paled. Xavier had mentioned telepathy before, but for someone who had kept his powers a secret for over twenty years, the idea that someone could reach into his head and rifle through it was... disturbing.

"Moreover, some of our students and staff come from traumatic family situations. I fear that there are some for whom learning of your abilities might be unnecessarily distressing. I would ask that you keep that information to yourself. Do you understand?"

"Yeah. You don't want a freaked out kid to Hulk out and drag me to their parent's grave." Ned summarized neatly. He wouldn't blame them; even Chuck had succumbed to the temptation. Although, the renegade Charles Charles had eventually sown the seeds of his daughter's second death - not that it mattered anymore. The Purifiers had taken care of him.

Xavier nodded slowly, a pained expression passing over his face. "Generally I advise young mutants to develop their powers, to come to peace with them. I wish that I did not have to ask this of you, Ned. It goes against my nature as an educator, as a mentor. But I must prioritize your safety and the safety of my students. Can I trust you to be discreet about your powers?"

"Of course, professor." His lip quirked into a bitter smile. "I've been doing that for twenty-four years now."

* * *

><p><strong>notes.<strong>

I'm done exams. I'm done exams. _I'm done exams I'm so excited_

Which is good news for those of you interested in this fic. Yes, the chapters are going to vary quite a bit in length. The next one is around 1500 at the moment, though it might get longer depending. Let me know if there's characters that you'd like to see interacting with Ned the Mutant.

**Don't write the story. Live the story.**


	4. Dolente

Requiem

Setting: Three years after PD Season 2. A few years back in the 'corrected' post-DOFP universe.

Summary: Ned discovered his mutation when he was nine. He was lucky enough to find a partner that thought his power was a gift, not an abomination - even more so when his powers brought back his childhood sweetheart. But nothing lasts forever. There's nothing left for him in Papen County. This is the end. Or is it?

Warnings: Angst like whoa. Character death. Suicide and overall dark themes at the beginning.

* * *

><p><strong><em>dolente<em>**

_sorrowfully, as if the player were mourning_

* * *

><p>It smelled like a library should smell. The air was musty with the scent of old paper. Dust swirled lazily in the beams which passed through distant skylights. The shelves were dark wood, the walls coated with dark red paint. This was a place to reflect, to meditate-<p>

A burst of laughter and frantic shushing from a group of teens gathered around a table in the corner.

-a place to sit and do homework, apparently.

Ned took a long breath and released it, making his way through the stacks. He hadn't a clue what he was looking for. Escape? Comfort? Something to remind him that he was still on planet Earth?

He wandered through biographies, stared vacantly at philosophy, rifled through literature. There wasn't a strong fiction section. Beyond the classics, there were just a few battered copies of modern favourites. It looked as though someone had brought them from home.

He almost smiled at a copy of Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, handled so many times that its spine had been wrapped in clear packing tape.

Aimless footsteps led him to the psychology section, several rows away from the chatty teens. Their voices drifted to him through a shelf on cognitive behavioural therapy.

A boy's voice. "Okay, hear me out: Queen Victoria was a mutant."

A tongue clucked. "What?"

"Come on, Bobby." A girl's voice, thick with a southern twang.

Scanning the shelves, Ned picked up a small hardcover book. The spine read, 'A Grief Observed.' He flipped to the first page.

_"No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear. I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid. The same fluttering in the stomach, the same restlessness, the yawning. I keep on swallowing."_

He shuddered and looked around. Alone in his row, he felt exposed as a long-dead author put words to sensations he couldn't explain.

"Seriously! You know the rumors about 'the family sickness,' Carpathian werewolves, eating flesh - what if she was a mutant who shifted into wolf form? And she passed her mutation down the Royal bloodline?" A wooden chair creaked. The boy sounded smug. "You gotta admit, it makes sense."

The sound of paper crumpling met his ears. "I think your brain needs to thaw out." Another girl remarked.

A ball of notebook paper bounced past Ned's aisle. "Well, I don't hear you contributing this project. Are those your Comp Sci notes?"

"I thought I'd get some real work done," came the sassy retort.

He read on.

_"At other times it feels like being mildly concussed. There is a sort of invisible blanket between the world and me. I find it hard to take in what anyone says. Or perhaps, hard to want to take it in. It is so uninteresting. Yet I want the others to be about me. I dread the moments when the house is empty. If only they would talk to one another and not to me."_

"Guys, what about this? King Zog of Albania. Guy survived fifty-five assassination attempts." The southern girl spoke up. The sound of a book colliding with the table and pages turning. "Somebody shot him three times in the back of the head and he lived. Wait, that was his bodyguard. Yeah, that guy died."

Ned flipped to a different section of the book, his heartbeat quickening. Maybe another chapter would be less- evocative.

_"F__or in grief nothing 'stays put.' One keeps on emerging from a phase, but it always recurs. Round and round. Everything repeats. Am I going in circles, or dare I hope I am on a spiral? But if a spiral, am I going up or down it?"_

"What do you think, healing factor? Maybe a teek?"

"Who knows? We could probably build a case for it." The southern girl replied.

_"Her absence is like the sky, spread over everything. __How often - will it be for always? - how often will the vast emptiness astonish me like a complete novelty and make me say, 'I never realized my loss till this moment'?"_

"This is brilliant. I'd kiss you if it wouldn't kill me."

The book slipped from Ned's fingers.

It fell to the ground with a dull 'thud' and flapped open to the title page. He reminded himself to breathe.

It wasn't an auditory hallucination. That wasn't Chuck's voice. That was the boy.

Heart pounding in his ears, he snatched the book of the ground and slid it back on the shelf. Perhaps he could come back to it later. But certainly not now.

Ned stuffed his good hand in his pocket, trying to act nonchalant as he edged closer to the study area.

He kept his eyes on the titles passing before him.

'Darkness Visible: A Memoir of Madness.' 'Listening to Prozac.' 'The Noonday Demon.' 'The Black Veil.'

Well, wasn't that a cheery lot.

He turned a corner and the study group came into sight. Bobby had a particularly doe-eyed expression as he leaned toward a girl with white stripes in her auburn hair. Her countenance was both long-suffering and longing as she slouched back into her chair. The other girl, whose hair was pulled back in a ponytail, seemed amused by her partners.

Stealth. Stealth, Ned. He was here looking for a book, right?

Ned's shoulders slumped and he forced his attention back to the shelves. He grabbed a book at random, immersing himself in soothing prose that encouraged him to leap from his confines, befriend his grief and trust the wisdom of darkness.

His stomach sank as he turned a page. If grief was that easy to overcome, what was he doing wrong? He stuffed the book back in place vindictively and took up another, cracking its dusty gray cover open to the middle.

"Bobby, cut it out. You know it's not safe to touch me." said the girl with the Southern accent.

"I'm not afraid."

"I am. I don't want to hurt you."

Ned's fingers tightened around the book. He remembered rough hands holding him in place, the bite of the knife and the rush of the chill night air. But even the blade hadn't been half as painful as the soft palm forced against his chest, the spark of electricity..

* * *

><p>"You're right. I'm sorry." Bobby relented a few minutes later, sighing. He folded his arms on the table and rested his chin on his hands.<p>

Rogue tucked a white lock behind her ear. "It's not like I want to push you away."

"I know. It's not your fault. I just want to show you how I feel about you." Bobby said, glancing over at his girlfriend.

"You guys are idiots." Kitty said, sitting back down with a crumpled piece of paper in her hands.

Frowning, Bobby raised his head. "Hey, I know there's more ways to show that than physically. All I'm saying is-"

She tossed the wad at his face again, speaking in a lower tone. "No, I mean _you two are idiots_. How's your spatial awareness coming?"

Slowly Bobby moved to an upright position.

Rogue sat up straighter, her gaze flitting to the corners of eyes. "What do you mean by that?"

"You dorks haven't noticed the weird guy at the end of the row? He hasn't turned a page in like five minutes." Kitty said softly, opening her notebook and scribbling across the page.

The sandy-haired boy raised his head. He caught a brief glimpse of a shady figure in a beige button-down and was rewarded with a boot to the shin for his trouble.

"Don't look!" Rogue hissed.

"I wouldn't worry about it. I think he's working so hard on eavesdropping that he forgot to pay attention to his surroundings. I walked past him three times and he didn't look up once." Kitty whispered, hiding a smile.

Bobby shifted in his chair. "That's kind of freaky. You seen him around before?"

Both girls shook their heads.

"D'you think we should tell somebody?" Rogue said, looking around. Suspicious figures in the mansion usually weren't a good sign for a school full of mutants, many of them vulnerable runaways

Grabbing their thick history text, Bobby smirked. "Nah. I got a better idea." He nudged a chair out of the way with his foot and shoved the book forcefully across the table. It flew through the air and landed with a hearty booming sound.

The man flinched, his head jerking up.

Kitty stifled a giggle.

He looked towards them, curly hair hanging in his pale face. For such a tall guy, he had a way of making himself appear small. Now that he no longer stood in profile, they could see the fabric splint binding one arm and the bandages peeking out from under the sleeve of the other. He took a step backward, flustered. He haphazardly shoved the volume he'd been not-reading into a shelf and strode out of sight.

"Way to go, Bobby." Crisis averted, Rogue patted his shoulder with a gloved hand.

Something didn't sit right with Bobby. The man didn't seem like a threat; he was just a little- off. Bobby scooted his chair back and moved to shelf where the man had abandoned his book. He found it jammed between two texts on the history of podiatry.

'A Grief Like No Other: Surviving the Violent Death of Someone You Love.'

His stomach sank.

* * *

><p><strong>notes.<strong>

I think it's interesting that this all started based off a tumblr picset I made and turned into more than seven thousand words, most of which I wrote in the middle of exams. I'm gonna go ahead and say that this is evidence of an ability to be phenomenally creative under pressure. Creativity is not equal to productivity, though...

The text quoted comes from C.S. Lewis' 'A Grief Observed.' Fantastically poignant book. I highly recommend it - but it is a real heart-breaker if you happen to be right in the middle of a traumatic situation.

**Don't write the story. Live the story.**


	5. Nocturne

Requiem

Setting: Three years after PD Season 2. A few years back in the 'corrected' post-DOFP universe.

Summary: Ned discovered his mutation when he was nine. He was lucky enough to find a partner that thought his power was a gift, not an abomination - even more so when his powers brought back his childhood sweetheart. But nothing lasts forever. There's nothing left for him in Papen County. This is the end. Or is it?

Warnings: Angst like whoa. Character death. Suicide and overall dark themes at the beginning. Contains nuts.

* * *

><p><em><strong>nocturne<strong>_

_inspired by, or evocative of, the night_

* * *

><p>The edge of the gauze slipped from his fingers for the fourth time.<p>

The splint on his left hand reduced his grasping ability to a weak pinch, complicating the simplest of motions. A wave of frustration rolled over Ned. God, he was pathetic. He couldn't even take his own bandages off without running for help. His lip curled and he clenched his good hand into a fist, sitting back on the double bed.

He couldn't do this _one simple thing howwouldheevermoveonwithhislife-_

Shaking his head to break from the gravitational pull of his misery, he blinked the burning from his eyes and bit down fiercely on the loose end of the bandage. He yanked and twisted his right arm around and around, tugging at stray arm hairs and clumps of dried blood. Though his stitches had been removed days before, the edges of his lacerations were an angry scarlet, crusted with black.

Triumph surged through him and propelled him to his feet. Ned balled up the used bandages and tossed them into the garbage, looking out across the room. Xavier hadn't been kidding when he said the Institute was prepared for runaways. This room seemed less equipped for students and more for guests or itinerant teachers. It had an attached private bath, an upright dresser and matching vanity topped with several books left behind by the previous occupant - light books obviously meant for bedside reading, on topics such as biochemistry and genetics.

The walls were tastefully paneled in burnt umber with taupe accents. Slate gray drapes shielded the interior from the outside world, which was just how Ned preferred it at the moment. His own apartment was decorated in bright reds and forest greens, meaning to reproduce the atmosphere from the place he'd felt the safest. The muted palette and chocolate brown wood of Xavier's Institute wasn't quite homey, but it didn't make him homesick, either.

He'd spent a lot of time in this room in the last two weeks.

To be fair, there weren't a lot of places that he could go.

After endless months looking over his shoulder, anticipating capture around every corner, he had finally stopped running. And then he stopped everything else. Some days Ned couldn't summon the will to get out of bed. He'd wake up and automatically look to his right, expecting to see Chuck across from him. Then he'd be lost again.

His life had been structured around stability. When the comforting routine of life in the Pie Hole was disrupted, he'd clung to the one remnant of comfort he had left. He'd lost his family, his friends, his home, his business - but he still had Chuck. On the night they fled Papen County, he'd kissed her glove and swore that he'd keep her safe. He reminded her of what he'd told her years ago: _"You're what I need to be happy."_

A part of him knew his behaviour wasn't entirely healthy. Yet for two fugitives running from kidnap and experimentation, codependency had been the least of their worries.

And now, all of those warm, happy bits she'd given him had been scooped out and replaced with mourning and fear. When the numbness wore off, the light of day revealed him to be a mess of anxieties and grief crammed into human skin. He was packed with grief; he was choking on his grief. In sudden and unpredictable moments, it pressed against the back of his eyes and poured down his face. What he needed-

Alone in his borrowed room in the dead of night, Ned choked out an absurd little laugh. What he needed was an emotional Heimlich - for someone to put their arms around him and squeeze until all that emotion came shooting out his mouth so he could breathe again.

Failing that, he needed to stay busy. The problem was this: there wasn't a lot for a dead-waking private detective to do in a school for mutants.

The directionless nervous energy had struck. Ned had surrendered to Xavier's repeated requests to join him for tea, which he suspected the telepath offered in an effort to get him out of his room. A chiding voice in his head that sounded a lot like Chuck (though everything reminded him of Chuck these days) urged him to look after himself. So he went through the mechanical motions of eating, sleeping, and washing up.

After the disastrous encounter in the library in which he had nearly had a full-blown panic attack in front of a group of ogling teenagers, Ned procured a clue pad and started tracking the times of day when areas of the mansion were least occupied so he could roam in peace. While packed in the afternoon and early evenings, the library tended to be empty in the morning. The gym was full in the early morning and later evening, but it was empty in the middle of the day. Common rooms like the kitchens were only accessible to him during classes and in the middle of the night.

With one arm in bandages and the other wrapped in a splint, his usual outlet of stress baking eluded him. When dissociated panic and troubled energy threatened to draw him into a destructive spiral, he gingerly pulled on a sweatshirt emblazoned with the Institute's logo and went for a run in the woods. He ran until the burn of his lungs and the beat of his heart overcame the whirl of his thoughts, freeing him to fall into the dreamless oblivion of exhaustion.

But the day came when Ned had been so submerged in the strange and unfamiliar that he needed a glimmer of normalcy to make it through.

He thought back to his time at boarding school and found himself in the auxiliary kitchen long after lights out. Certainly a school full of teenagers wouldn't question the appearance of a couple of pies on the counter.

Stress baking might have been his favoured coping method, but it was difficult to attempt with one arm in a splint. He fumbled his way through the prep work for the crust of a single pie before the throbbing in his broken hand begged him to wrap the dough to chill in the fridge and call it a night. He would come back to finish up the following evening.

Ned wasn't counting on a visitor.

* * *

><p>He drummed his fingers against the countertop, resisting the urge to knock the handle of the rolling pin against his forehead. Ned reminded himself of the pie dough rule of escalating insanity: easy dough made for a tough crust. The more the dough drove him up the wall and convinced him that he had better toss the whole mess and start over, the flakier it would be.<p>

Of course, that rule generally applied to dough that he made with two working hands. On a productive night of stress baking, he could typically prepare enough pies to fill all his ovens and still be ready for midmorning rush. Down a hand and working on foreign turf, he was limited in capability and capacity.

Pressing his cast against the handle of the rolling pin worked well enough, but he couldn't twist his hand to prevent his elbow from jabbing himself in the stomach. Which meant that his range of motion was restricted to the ten inches he could reach while locking his elbows straight out before him like a velociraptor.

Though really, wrestling dough into the right thickness felt familiar, felt right. Pie making was his strength. He felt comfortable in a kitchen. His fingers moved in familiar ways. The normalcy of working with his hands to create something out of nothing helped to grounded him in reality. It gave him an outlet for the nervous energy that thrummed through his spine and sent him running in the night. He knew what he was doing; he knew what the end product would be.

Working in an unfamiliar kitchen with improvised ingredients presented a welcome distraction, a new puzzle to solve. Learning to function with one arm in a cast forced him to focus on the mechanics behind each action.

Maybe that was what adjusting to life without Chuck would be like. Learning to live without a limb.

His jaw tensed and he shut his eyes. That wasn't helping.

Pie time, Ned reminded himself.

A voice sounded behind him.

"Working on a midnight snack, Mr. Summers?"

Ned started and turned around.

The sandy-haired boy from the library was staring at him, amusement fading into discomfort. "Sorry, I thought - hey, didn't I see you in the library last week?"

'See' was a pretty vague term. 'Caught in a flashback' was more accurate. Still, Ned nodded stiffly and offered the boy a polite smile.

Hesitating briefly in the doorway, the boy (Bobby, Ned recalled) stepped into the kitchen. "I just wanted to apologize, you know, for before. I was being an idiot. Showing off for a girl. You know how it is."

Ned laid the rolling pin back on the counter, his smile softening into something a bit more sincere. "Don't worry about it. I've done pretty stupid things for a girl before." Like, for example, killing a funeral director.

"I'm Bobby, by the way. Bobby Drake." The boy said, moving to the freezer and fetching a pint of Baskin Robbins. He grabbed a spoon from the silverware drawer and sat down on a stool by the counter.

"I'm Ned." The pie maker replied. He traded his rolling pin for a scoring knife and sliced the dough into uniform strips, which he returned to the refrigerator on a platter for when he needed them.

Bobby glanced around the kitchen at the baking materials spread about, the parchment paper and bowls and scattered flour on counters. Admittedly the kitchen was a bit of a mess, but then again, so was Ned. "So, uh, midnight snack?"

The pie maker shrugged his shoulders, pursing his lips as a thin furrow appeared between his eyebrows. "The kitchen was empty and I didn't think anyone would mind. It's nice to do something I'm good at."

The oven timer went off. Slipping an oven mitt onto his good hand, he peeked into the oven and removed the crust he'd been pre-baking. The crust was lined with parchment paper and filled with almonds to weigh the paper down and prevent the crust from puffing up. Ned removed the oven mitt and gathered the edges of the parchment paper together, lifting the almonds out of the pan and pouring them into a bowl he'd set aside for that purpose.

"Want some?" He asked, lifting his chin toward the bowl of dried almonds as he crumpled the parchment paper and tossed it in the garbage.

Bobby's eyes lingered on Ned's exposed forearm. He'd rolled his sleeves up to keep them clean as he worked, revealing healing wounds that were outlined with pairs of black dots from where the stitches had been.

The pie maker shifted uncomfortably under the Bobby's gaze, eager to distract him. "I washed my hands, I promise. Almonds?"

Bobby sat up straighter, blinking deliberately and reaching for the bowl. "Sure, thanks."

Heat still radiated from the container of nuts. Ned was about to offer a warning when a stream of cool air emanated from Bobby's fingertips, dissipating the heat instantly.

"You're too old to be a student." Bobby observed, taking a handful and began to munch.

Ned turned away, slipping the crust back into the oven to tan and resetting the timer while he measured his words.

The boy piped up before he had a chance to work out a response. "Are you an X-Man?"

"What?" He replied, incredulous.

"You just came back from a mission, right?" Bobby gestured vaguely to his injuries. "You came around the same time Logan did."

Scoffing lightly, Ned looked from the sandy-haired boy to the splint on his wrist and the lacerations on his arms. "Well, sort of. I kinda was the mission. Logan and Jean got me out of a- situation." He retrieved the defrosted bowl of raspberries, strawberries, and blackberries and drained some of the excess juice. There was no rotting fruit to be found in the mansion's kitchen. While the lack of decay would prevent Ned from imbuing the fruit with just-picked-off-the-bush freshness, at least he would be able to eat it. It was hilarious, in a dark way - hunger had been his constant companion on the road, and now that Ned had run of a kitchen, he couldn't find his appetite.

His vague explanation seemed to satisfy the teen. Although in a school for mutants that housed a team of covert agents or whatever the heck Logan and Jean were, he supposed that the students had grown accustomed to a measure of secrecy around certain activities. Ned fetched an orange from the bowl of loose fruit on the table. Grabbing a cheese grater and holding it steady with his splint, he started grating the orange zest onto a cutting board. "Looks like you've got a magic touch."

"Yup. I can create ice from the moisture in the air. I'm working on manipulating it around my body, like armour, but that's easier said than done." Bobby replied, returning to his ice cream. "What's your power?"

Ned froze for half a second, then tried to keep his face as straight as possible. "Oh - um, not anything cool like yours."

Bobby smiled at the unintentional pun.

"I can, uh, regenerate my organs." He explained, setting the grater down and sweeping the zest into the bowl of berries.

Bobby made a face. "What?"

"Yeah. I went in to get my appendix taken out and it popped right back. Three times." Ned said, reciting the practiced back story. He gestured with his splinted hand. "Skin, bones, all the other stuff heals normally. But whole parts just regrow. It's kind of a useless power."

"Not if one shuts down on you, I guess." Bobby mumbled through a spoonful of mint chocolate chip.

Ned let out humourless chuckle, adding a few spices, vanilla extract and a splash of lemon juice to the pie filling. "Yeah, I'm an organ smuggler's dizzy daydream. Apparently some folks at the hospital heard about me and figured they'd found a way to keep themselves perpetually in the black." Now, for the pièce de résistance. He hooked a finger on his collar and tugged it down to expose the crusted gash beginning at his sternum.

The spoon clattered to the granite counter top. "Holy shit." Bobby said, eyes wide in horror. "What were they gonna do, use you like an ATM?"

Ned ducked his head, looking as uncomfortable as he felt. Hopefully Bobby would attribute it to trauma rather than deception. "I don't really- I don't like talking about it. But that's what the professor got me out of. Life as a lab rat. I can't begin to-" His voice cut out with real emotion as his cover overlapped with reality.

Catching the pie maker's reluctance, Bobby cleared his throat and generously changed the subject. "So, is baking a hobby for you or a job?"

He fetched a large slotted spoon from across the kitchen. "Both, I guess. I trained as a pastry chef, but pie-making's my specialty."

The boy's eyes went distant. "My mom used to make pie. A long time ago."

"Mine, too." Ned said quietly. "I had a bakery, before- everything. The Pie Hole. Small staff, real homey. I mean, business wasn't exactly booming - I wasn't going to start franchising anytime soon, but it was nice." He mixed the filling slowly, using a light touch to keep from bruising the fruit. He smiled fondly at nothing.

The oven timer dinged again, drawing him out of his thoughts. "Anyway. That's all gone now."

Unsure of what to say, Bobby nodded.

Ned took the crust from the oven and set it on the rack to cool. A minute or two passed, then Ned looked up. "Mind if I ask you a question? And it's totally okay if you say no. I mean, I was just wondering-"

"Go for it." Bobby replied.

Anxiety twisted in his gut. He sprinkled flour lightly into the pie crust to prevent the filling from making it soggy, then started scooping the triple berry mixture into the shell. "What's the deal with your girlfriend? I saw the gloves and I caught bits and pieces in the library, but-"

Bobby relaxed. Well, that wasn't hardly a secret. "Oh, Rogue? It's her mutation. If she touches a mutant, she takes their power. If she touches a human, she takes their life force. She's pretty powerful, but, you know. Dangerous."

And he thought he had it bad. Ned paled, his knees going weak. He leaned quickly against the counter, releasing a slow breath.

The teenager frowned, leaning forward on his stool. "Hey man, you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Low blood sugar. Nothing to worry about." Ned set the bowl on the counter, popping the last blackberry into his mouth. "You can't touch her at all?"

Bobby pulled a face. "Nope. It sucks."

The pie maker looked thoughtful for a moment, his hands resting on the granite. "There's a saying I heard once. It really stuck with me."

He thought back to Olive's would-be suitor, Alfredo Aldarisio, and the potent words he'd offered to woo her. Ned remembered the muted disappointment on her face as she'd related it to him, the wistfulness of someone who'd unknowingly thrown away a winning lottery ticket.

"'If I loved you, then I would love you in any way I could. And if we could not touch, then I would draw strength from your beauty." He said as he walked to the fridge and retrieved the platter containing the strips of dough, returning them to the island in the middle of the kitchen. Ned set the platter down and finished, "And if I went blind, then I would fill my soul with the sound of your voice and the contents of your thoughts until the last spark of my love for you lit the shabby darkness of my dying mind.'"

"Whoa." Bobby said aptly.

Ned carefully separated the thin strips and began weaving the lattice together atop the triple berry filling. "There's a lot more to a relationship than touch, but - tell me this, are Rogue's powers activated by heat or skin contact?"

"Um, skin contact, I think. Why?"

Glancing up at Bobby, there was a shadow of a smile in his voice as he asked, "Tell me, what are your thoughts on saran wrap?"

* * *

><p><strong>notes.<strong>

Pie Dough Rule of Escalating Insanity from The Rice and Spice Cupboard's blog. She has a recipe for Chuck's apple pie with Gruyère baked into the crust. I highly recommend checking it out.

Ned's cover story is inspired by Feral of the webcomic Strong Female Protagonist.

**Don't write the story. Live the story.**


	6. En Pressant

Requiem

Setting: Three years after PD Season 2. A few years back in the 'corrected' post-DOFP universe.

Summary: Ned discovered his mutation when he was nine. He was lucky enough to find a partner that thought his power was a gift, not an abomination - even more so when his powers brought back his childhood sweetheart. But nothing lasts forever. There's nothing left for him in Papen County. This is the end. Or is it?

Warnings: Angst like whoa. Character death. Suicide and overall dark themes at the beginning.

* * *

><p><em><strong>en pressant<strong>_

_hurrying onward_

* * *

><p>The door to the study clicked shut.<p>

Ned sagged against a cushy armchair. He took a deep breath, rubbing his hands together to rid them of nervous tension. At long last, he picked up the reciever and dialed.

The line rang once. Twice. Four times.

Voices in the background. "Emerson Cod."

"It's me." Ned stated, toneless.

The detective's voice became high and cooing. "Yes, Mrs. Cooper! I appreciate you returning my call. One moment, please." He made muffled excuses to the party in the room with him. Footsteps and the sound of a door closing. Then Emerson's voice became clear once more. "Boy, is that you?"

He nodded automatically, although his friend would have no way of seeing it. "It's me, Emerson. I've been told this is a safe line."

The private investigator let out a relieved sigh. "I ain't heard from you in months. You scared the hell outta me. I was startin' to think Minneapolis was happenin' all over again."

An involuntary shudder as Ned thought back to the abandoned mill and the coldest winter of his life. Merciless gusts of wind had swept through corridors lurid with graffiti, clearing the air of the caustic scent of sickness laced with rust. The blaze of fever. The gnaw of hunger. It was a miracle he'd survived.

Flush with sudden gratitude, Ned stood from the armchair and moved to stand in front of the radiator. Anywhere was better than Minneapolis in the wintertime. "Sorry about that. Some mutual friends caught up with me. I heard you made a reservation for me at that place in New York?"

"Yeah, I heard good things about it. Figured if anyone could cater to your- dietary needs, it'd be them."

Ned scoffed lightly at Emerson's choice of words, the corners of his mouth turning slightly.

Over the line, the voice pressed further. "How 'bout it, kid? Does it live up to the hype?"

Shrugging, Ned paced a slow line across the study in borrowed sneakers. "It's treating me pretty well so far. Had some trouble getting in the door."

Emerson grunted. Then - "How's Dead Girl?"

He stopped. "Dead."

Silence over the line. The private investigator drew in a sharp breath. "Man, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring it up like that- "

His gut twisted as Ned realized that Emerson's nickname for Chuck had taken on a new meaning. "I know. I get it."

A brief pause as his friend fought for words. "How did she- was it-?"

"Me. Yes." He breathed. "Around four weeks ago. Just before Xavier's people found me."

Something heavy impacted wood in Emerson's office. The detective let out a frustrated sound. "I'm sorry, kid. If I'd reached out to your kin a little sooner, maybe-"

Ned bowed his head, recognizing bargaining when he heard it. "Emerson, stop. We didn't know who to trust back then. You did everything you could. You're the reason they got me out, and that's what she would've-" His voice broke and he shut his eyes.

"Yeah. You're probably right."

A pregnant pause while both men considered their mutual loss, how grief was defined as much by the lack of relationship as the relationship itself. "Do me a favor - can you have Olive break the news to Lily and Vivian? This is going to kill them, losing her twice. Olive knows them best; if anyone can break the news gently, it's her."

"Sure thing." Emerson rumbled. An intake of breath followed by a beat. Then he spoke again. "And what about you? Four weeks gone by, you lookin' after yourself?"

Ned scoffed, rolling his eyes. "I don't have to worry about food here, if that's what you're asking."

An unimpressed grunt in his ear.

"I'm trying, honest." Shoulders drooping, he huffed out a breath. Remembering to care for himself was a daily struggle, but not one that he was ready to unload on Emerson. Conscious of how self-centered the coversation had been thus far, Ned feigned an overly-bright tone. "Anyway, how are things in your neck of the woods?

"You know, workin' the old-fashioned way. Itty Bitty helps me out now and again, but her shop and her new hubby keep her pretty busy."

The corners of his lips turned up slightly. "She got married?"

"Yeah, Itty Bitty shacked up with the taxidermist. The Pie Hole got foreclosed on and she bought it when it went on the market again. Wanted the space for her macaroni place and figured you wouldn't mind."

At least a couple of them had come out of this mess relatively unscathed. Ned attempted a wavering smile, resolute in his decision that staying away from Papen County had been the best thing for his friends. "Of course. That's great. At least it's in good hands."

"Your boys are doing alright. They came to my office three times now, tryin' to hire me to find you."

He let out a surprised laugh, swelling with a bit of pride. Apparently 'Frere Pie Maker' had made a stronger impression on his half-brothers than he'd expected. "Really?"

"Those boys need to learn that they poking they noses in places where no noses need pokin'." Emerson said with stern annoyance. His tone shifted suddenly, taking on a sudden grimness. "But they're not the only ones pokin' around."

The amusement drained from Ned's face.

"Folk are still comin' round asking about you. I been running counter-intel on them and I keep hearing the same word thrown around."

His grip on the receiver tightened, pupils dilating slightly. "What's that?"

"Genesis. Mean anything to you?"

Searching his memory, Ned came up with nothing beyond the book and a Star Trek movie he'd seen long ago. "Nothing significant."

"Sounds like the name of a case or an operation to me. There's a pack of nosy suits and people tryin' to not look like suits sniffing around town for somebody can bring dead things back to life. If I was you, I'd keep my head down until Genesis became history." Emerson said in his 'I'm-in-charge-so-stop-ignoring-the-gun-in-my-hand' voice.

"I'll keep that in mind." Ned replied. Perhaps he could run it by the professor later on. Having such a limited circle of confidence was occasionally a hassle. He'd always preferred keeping his secrets close to the vest, but it was frustrating when he couldn't inquire of anyone on a massive campus besides the busiest person there. That question would have to wait until their next meeting, though. "How's Digby doing? It can't be easy for a live dog to share an apartment with Randy."

An image flashed into his head of his lovable retriever hiding from the taxidermist and attempting to chase stuffed squirrels.

The line went quiet a moment too long.

Ned glanced at the phone. "Emerson? You still there?"

"Yeah. Uh, Ned, I hate to be the one to tell you this-"

His stomach clenched. No, no, Digby couldn't be dead - not after all these years-

"Digby ran away. Maybe three weeks ago or so."

The knot in his stomach loosened. Missing beat dead - if only by the tiniest amount. "How did that happen? Why now, why after all this time?"

"I don't know. Olive said he hadn't been doing nothing different. He was there one night and gone by morning."

He resumed pacing the study, long legs crossing swiftly the distance afforded him by the phone cord. Ned's voice raised in pitch. "Well, have you checked-"

"Your apartment, your building, your old house, Chuck's old house, your old school, and every shelter, clinic, and vet's office in between? Course I did. More'n once. If anybody sees anything, they'll let me know. Ned, I'm an investigator. Trackin' things down is what I'm good at. Digby's just.. gone. I'm sorry."

He backed up against the wall and slid to the floor, overcome with a sense of powerlessness.

Emerson was talking again.

"Ned? You alright?"

"Hmm? Yeah," The pie maker replied, by which he meant, 'No.' He considered the amount of time it had been since he'd spoken to Emerson, then thought of the time his no-nonsense friend had spent trying to hunt down Digby. He forced his expression into a smile made of spun glass. "He's just a dog, right?"

Never one to accept deception, Emerson's voice rumbled, "No, not really."

"Not really." The glass shattered into invisible fragments on the floor. He felt vacant again. Like the desolate mill, with icy wind whistling through broken windows. "Thanks for looking."

Outside the study, he could survey the entire courtyard. A group of kids was celebrating the day's end with a snowball fight. The front pond had frozen over at last, though he had an inkling of who might have helped the process along. A pair of bundled figures wobbled in circles around its edges, mitten clasped in mitten.

Twisting the phone cord around his finger, Ned stared out at the courtyard from his position on the floor. "I was gonna marry her, you know. That was always the plan. I just couldn't quite figure out.. We could never.."

He didn't want to talk anymore. His throat hurt and his voice was starting to break. Still, Ned swallowed heavily, leaned his head back against the wall and finished his thought. "Now I know. There's no future- there's no happy ending with me."

Emerson's concern radiated over the line. "You take care of yourself, okay kid?"

* * *

><p>Dusk fell.<p>

The small hours of the morning found Ned staring holes into the ceiling, hands folded behind his head. Errant thoughts buzzed through his mind like mosquitoes. When he closed his eyes, the incessant drone of his worries pressed closer, growing ever louder and more urgent.

Where had Digby gone?

Why now? Had something driven him away? What could he be up to?

Was he safe? Had he been spirited away by masked dognappers? Had he been struck by a car crossing a highway? Had he been attacked by wild animals?

Had one of the observers noticed that Digby had been Ned's companion for nearly twenty-five years without a grey hair flecking his auburn snout?

Had he been dragged off to a lab for product testing or experimentation?

His stomach gurgled unpleasantly. A dull, burning pain lodged itself behind his breastbone, a bitter taste on his tongue. Pushing his blanket aside, Ned sat up and scrubbed his face with one hand. There would be no sleep this evening.

What he wanted - besides his loved ones alive and safe - was for life to go back to normal. Ned was a creature of habit. He found comfort in routines. Even on the run they had been able to establish some normalcy in the day-to-day. There were things they had to do to survive. Make sure the safehouse was secure. Determine if the neighbours were trustworthy enough to use as a source of info. Find food to wake for Chuck. Barter for food for himself. Make sure there was emergency cash to get to the next city. Stay warm. Stay anonymous. Stay alive.

Here at the Institute, when he woke up in the morning all of the boxes on his task list were checked off - except the last one. Cut off from the imperatives of the road and the coping mechanisms of home, it was difficult to muster the will to do much of anything.

Well, now that his splint had been removed, there was one thing he could do at this hour of the night.

Ned slipped on a hoodie emblazoned with the Institute's logo and padded down the hallway in striped pajama bottoms and bare feet. He let out a pained grunt and pressed a palm against his sternum, wishing vainly for an antacid.

And then he heard it. A muffled sound, like someone gasping into their hands.

Quiet sobs coming from the darkened sitting room outside the kitchen. At first Ned thought it might be the insomniac technopath that occupied the front room most nights. No, these noises sounded younger, more feminine. He poked his head into the sitting room slowly, not wanting to intrude on a private moment.

Sure enough, the light streaming in from the hallway revealed a little girl - she couldn't have been more than twelve- with her back against the deep scarlet couch and her knees pulled to her chest. She wore a lilac robe over a pale blue nightgown. Jet black hair draped over her knees, her face hidden behind pale fingers.

He shifted his weight from one foot to another, digging his hands into the hoodie's pouch. Perhaps he should get someone. Who was he to comfort a crying girl?

...apparently, the only one present. Conscience nudged him forwards and he stepped closer, hunching his shoulders.

Ned cleared his throat slightly, his words tumbling loose. "Um, hi there. I don't mean to pry if you're in a wound-up-and-locked-tight kind of state, but- are you alright?"

The girl's sobs slowed into hiccoughs. She gave an exaggerated shrug, not lifting her head. Still, she hadn't shooed him away, which was a sign.

"I'm Ned. What's your name?" He asked, taking gentle steps toward her, wondering if she'd startle.

She hiccoughed again. "Ruth."

"Ruth, that's a nice name." The school nurse had been named Ruth. Some of the less terrible memories he'd had of boarding school had taken place in the nurse's office. When homesickness for a home that didn't exist had struck him, she'd given him cherry suckers and let him linger instead of sending him back to class. "What's the matter, Ruth?" Ned asked, turning on a lamp on a side table.

Ruth didn't react to the light. She pulled her hands from her face and looked up at him, lower lip trembling. Her eyes were covered with a strip of white cloth. "I can't see, sorry."

He furrowed his brow. Mutant teenagers were still teenagers; bullying had to be universal, but this was cruel. "You don't have to be sorry. Let's take that blindfold off you."

Ned reached out with hands that dwarfed hers, but her reflexes were quicker. She gently batted his wrist away. "Don't, thank you. Don't take it off. Please, you'll get upset."

"Why would I get upset?" Ned asked, tilting his head to the side. He sat down on the floor beside her. "I just want to help."

She nibbled on a fingernail coated with chipped lavender polish, shaking her head slowly. "I don't see like you." She reached back and pulled loose the blindfold, revealing two sunken indents of flesh where her eyes ought to be.

Ned's stomach flip-flopped, but he did his best to keep his expression neutral. Most of the mutants he'd seen thus far didn't have drastic physical mutations. Alright, there was the walking blue lion man and the tattooed German guy with the tail, but this one had caught him off guard.

Ruth quirked an eyebrow and made a face. "Told you so. I see too much. I can see behind you, ahead of you, yes, all around me. But I can't see what m-matters." Her breath hitched again and she sniffed, cheeks flushed. But there were no tears - for obvious reasons.

"What matters? What can't you see?" asked Ned.

She lowered her dark head despondently. "The end."

Ruth turned to him suddenly, wrapping slender arms around his chest as she burst into not-tears.

Paralyzed, but not cold-hearted enough to push her away, Ned carefully patted Ruth's back. He was really out of his depth in the hug department.

Her shoulders heaved and she sobbed incoherently into his shoulder. Then, after a minute she turned slightly and he was able to catch her words. She was murmuring apologies into his arm. "'M not a nurse, no, I can't fix it with cherries and a kiss. I'm sorry, Genesis - I'm so sorry."

His hand froze on her shoulder.

"What did you say?" Ned asked, his breath caught in his throat.

The dark-haired girl looked up at him with empty eye sockets, her face crumpled with despair. "Please, things are only gonna get worse. I don't know how it ends."

Anxiety pooled in his stomach. Mind-reading was one thing - but picking salient details from his memories was different from knowing how to use them. "What did you say, Ruth? What's Genesis?"

Some of her anguish faded into confusion. She pulled back from him. "That's your name."

His mouth fell open.

"Ruthie!" An older teenage girl in a magenta scoop-necked shirt called from the doorway. She heaved a sigh of relief and stepped into the sitting room. Her short, sleep-tousled hair fell in black waves against her golden complexion. "I've been looking for you."

Ruth jolted to her feet and darted to the older girl's side. "Didn't want to wake you, Jubilee."

"Then don't go running off on me, brat." The teen replied, affectionately ruffling Ruth's hair. "Did you have another vision?"

The girl nodded.

From his position on the floor, Ned's throat might have closed over.

Jubilee rubbed soothing circles into her young friend's back. "You wanna talk about it?"

She shook her head.

"Alright. Then it's back to bed, troublemaker, or I won't fix your nails." Jubilee said, giving Ruth a tight squeeze before ushering her towards the door. "Be there in a sec."

Ruth pulled her robe tight and slipped out of the room, her fingertips ghosting along the wall.

The burning in his chest had doubled. Ned slowed his breathing with an effort, looking up at Jubilee with a mixture of dread and disbelief. "It'd be too much to ask for her to be a shapeshifter, wouldn't it?"

Jubilee wrinkled her nose and nodded sympathetically. "Sorry. Ruthie's a genuine precog."

He sank back against the couch, clasping his hands together as they started to tremble.

"What is this," Ned asked in a faint voice, "a police state?"

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><p><strong>notes.<strong>

Whoop, there's an update!

Oh man. There is one chapter of this act to go, then a brief intermission before we enter act two. This was supposed to be a cute little fic with the plot wrapped up sweetly in a bow at the end of next chapter. I took a long time struggling with whether to pursue the plot bunnies or to end the fic, but plot bunnies took hold of me (as did Ruth Aldine, Blindfold in the X-Men comics) and I rewrote this section to set up the second act.

So yes, Ned should be worried. Something wicked this way comes. It's called the author.

Reminder. This is AU set in the X-Men universe. I don't claim perfect knowledge of the comic continuity, but I do want to include some of those characters as well as favorites from the movies.

Familiar faces are coming next chapter.

Tally ho!

**Don't write the story. Live the story.**


	7. Dolce

Requiem

Setting: Three years after PD Season 2. A few years back in the 'corrected' post-DOFP universe.

Summary: Ned discovered his mutation when he was nine. He was lucky enough to find a partner that thought his power was a gift, not an abomination - even more so when his powers brought back his childhood sweetheart. But nothing lasts forever. There's nothing left for him in Papen County. This is the end. Or is it?

Warnings: Angst like whoa. Character death. Suicide and overall dark themes at the beginning.

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><p><strong><em>dolce<em>**

_sweetly_

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><p>Ned was troubled.<p>

Troubled was worse than worried in that his anxiety was unfocused and lacked an outlet, but was better than panicked - from which, he was proud to say, he had worked himself down.

Anxious thoughts crowded his mind.

Worry for Digby - wherever he was.

Worry for Emerson and Olive - whether the observers would keep their distance or press closer to his friends.

Worry for Lily and Vivian - losing their niece for a second time.

Worry for himself - for the organization that had dubbed him Genesis and for whatever dark visions had caused a young girl to run, weeping, from her room.

The thought that drove him on past death and despair was the faint hope that where he was going wouldn't be as bad as where he'd been. One day he wouldn't hurt as much; one day he wouldn't have to remind himself to get out of bed, to keep breathing and putting one foot in front of another. If he couldn't cling to that hope- he'd go mad, he was sure of it.

As best he could, Ned packaged his concern in a mental box and set it aside, channeling the energy of his churning thoughts into productivity like a hydroelectric dam of anxiety. Outside of a panic attack he generally had steady hands. He'd sliced his way through four pounds of Fuji and Granny Smith apples before his racing pulse began to slow. He wasn't working in a commercial kitchen; there were only so many pies that he could leave around before someone confronted him about the amount of ingredients he was using up. If he couldn't produce a volume of pies, he'd have to compensate with refining his technique.

Tonight the plan was apple, coconut custard, peach, and shoofly. The first pie was already in the oven and the kitchen was thick with the smell of cinnamon apples. Predictably, he hadn't been able to find any Gouda lying around, but he'd grated a bit of old cheddar into the dough to compensate. The crust for the shoofly pie would have to be blind baked and he wasn't certain the molasses would stretch as far as he'd like. He bent closer to the counter, meticulously weaving three foot-long strips of dough into a tight braid to lay around the outside edge. An extra effort, to be sure, but Ned had always prided himself on his presentation. There was something satisfying about demonstrating his control, even if it was over pastry-

"So you're the Midnight Baker!" cried a voice from the dark.

His head jerked up and he drew a sharp breath. Ned's hands flew to his sides, ready for action. "Jeez!"

Standing in the doorway was Bobby's girlfriend, the girl from the library with the white bangs, wearing a black sleveless nightgown. Rogue cringed and raised an apologetic hand, then drew it back. "Sorry, sorry! I didn't mean to startle you."

"It's okay, I- it's okay. I wasn't paying attention." Ned replied, wrapping his arms around his midsection. His sudden movement had torn through the strips of dough. Inconvenient, but nothing that a dab of water and some egg wash couldn't mend. He took a deep breath. "I'm the what now?"

"The Midnight Baker. You're the one making the pies been showin' up in the morning. Bobby said he'd met the Baker, but he was bein' all annoying an' secretive about it." Rogue said. Her voice had a funny tone to it, like when Emerson talked about his mom or when the twins brought up Herrmann. She peeked in through the oven window to the apple pie and inhaled slowly. Juices had begun to bubble up through the star-shaped vent scored in the center of the crust. "Funny, I thought you'd be a girl."

No stranger to casual sexism, Ned pursed his lips. "Sorry to disappoint."

Realizing her imprudence, Rogue cringed. "Oh, I didn't mean nothing by it! Shoot, that's twice I've gone and upset you. I smelled the pie and wanted to come see... Anyway, I'm Rogue."

"Ned. Pie maker and apparently Midnight Baker."

"I'd shake your hand, but.." Rogue glanced at her hands, which were bare. Self-conscious, she hooked one hand around her elbow and hugged it tight.

Fascinated, Ned watched as she corrected her body language to take up less space, to keep her bare skin away from his. He was familiar with these motions, having taught himself new ways to stand, walk, breath so to be less noticable, less likely to bump into Chuck or Digby. It was surreal to see his body language manifesting in another. He looked at the teenager who had discovered a few short years ago that she would never be able to touch another person for the rest of her life. He thought of how imperative it was that Rogue never, ever touch him.

Ned wondered if the fear of her own skin controlled her as much as it had him.

In a moment, it became very important to Ned that Rogue not be afraid around him. He consciously relaxed his arms and gave her a nervous smile. "Don't worry about it. It's actually pretty difficult to get me mad."

"What happens then? I wouldn't like you when you're angry?" Rogue replied, her lips quirking.

Ned thought back to the last time he'd completely lost control, how he'd murdered three Purifiers in cold blood. His gaze fell and he shrugged uneasily. "Something like that." Returning to his pastry, Ned started a new braid with the broken pieces.

Rogue came around the side of the island and perched on a stool, folding her arms on the counter. "By the way, I wanted to say thank you."

He raised an eyebrow, tilting his head to the side. "Oh? What for?"

"For all this," The teen replied, spreading out a hand and gesturing to the ingredients and dishes he had arranged in organized clutter over the island and counters. "I know a lot of people appreciate it. Not just the little ones, either. Kurt still won't shut up about that crumb thing you did."

His fingers paused. He couldn't remember anyone thanking him for baking them a pie. Granted, he hadn't been doing a lot of that on the road, but mostly his baking had been for work or for himself. "You're welcome." Ned said in a soft voice, moistening the edges of the dough in its glass pan with a touch of water. Gingerly he lifted the braided strands and pressed them against the rest of the dough, fussing here and there to make sure it was glued in place. "I went to boarding school when I was a kid. Whenever I missed home, I'd sneak into the school kitchen and bake a pie."

Glancing across the room, Rogue looked up at the pie maker with a new understanding. "You must be missing home a lot then, huh?"

His eyes fluttered closed.

_He pressed his glove against her cheek, tinged pink from the cold. "Wherever you are, I'm home."_

Ned's mouth twisted and his nostrils flared slightly. He couldn't bring himself to answer that, so he just nodded. Parchment paper and uncooked rice went into the empty crust. He took a breath and changed the subject. "What about you? What's your home-away-from-home pie?"

She looked away thoughtfully, then replied, "Pecan. My Nana had this family recipe and she always brought it for Thanksgiving. When I was in middle school, she wanted to teach me how to make it, but I was always out - you know, running around, climbin' trees and stuff." Fiddling with the edge of her nightgown, Rogue added, "I guess I'll never know."

Ned pressed his lips together, then made his way to the cupboard above the stove. There wasn't enough molasses for shoofly anyways. He started pulling spices down: ginger, nutmeg, allspice, mace, cloves. From the pantry he found a container of pecans, which he set down in front of her. "Do you want to give it a shot?"

Rogue looked up, the kitchen light burning the deep brown of her eyes into amber. "Are you serious?"

He shrugged. "Why not? I've got an extra crust. It probably won't be quite like your Nana's, but you can tell me where I'm going wrong, and I'll make a note for next time. With a little help, it's shouldn't take long at all."

A goofy smile spread across her face and she stood up. "Sounds good to me." Then, Rogue froze in place. She hooked a hand around her elbow again, biting her lip. "Should I get my gloves? I don't want to, um- but is that sanitary?"

The timer went off and Ned set the apple pie on the counter to cool, switching it out for the plate containing the braided crust. He reset the timer. "No cloth gloves, but a hair tie would be appropriate. Pecan pie is sticky and there are some surprises that nobody likes."

"Aren't you afraid of me - you know, bumping you or runnin' into you or something?" The teen's face was troubled as she twirled her chestnut-and-frost hair into a low bun.

Ned set down a container of corn syrup and a stick of butter. He put his hands on the counter, staring at Rogue seriously. "No, I'm not. Do you want to know the secret to moving around in tight spaces without being afraid of touching someone?"

Her eyes went wide. She leaned her elbows on the counter and nodded.

"Communication, self-awareness, and patience. It's kitchen etiquette 101: always let people know where you are. I can show you how to work quickly around other people without worrying that you're going to hurt them." Ned paused, glancing away. He sounded pretty knowledgeable about a type of mutation he supposedly didn't have. He added hastily, "Usually the danger is, you know, a hot pan or a knife or something, but the same principle applies to skin."

Rogue had been pressing in intently as he'd elaborated. Her arms were sprawled on the counter, shoulders hunched.

"First thing's first." Ned stated, stepping away from the island. He raised his hands, then deliberately clasped them behind his back. "Hands to yourself. Know where you are; no one knows like you know, so when you know, you're free to go."

He introducing her to the words for potential hazards - when carrying a hot tray or pot, to announce 'Hot,' 'Sharp' when walking by with a knife, 'Behind' when moving behind someone to prevent collisions. Then, since they themselves were potential hazards, Ned introduced Rogue to the rules he and Chuck had lived by for so long. Soon the kitchen rang with a familiar chorus of 'Crossing,' 'Waiting,' 'Stopping,' 'Going.' Music to Ned's ears.

He found himself smiling faintly as he showed Rogue how to brown the butter. She measured and mixed her ingredients while he prepped a second crust for coconut custard. Ned had her sniff-test all the spices to try and narrow down what might have been Nana's secret ingredient. They settled on allspice and nutmeg. He maintained a hand-off approach - he'd prepared the crust ahead of time and gave her basic instructions, but the important parts were all hers. She poured the filling into the crust and arranged a layer of pecans on top, then slid the pie into the oven with a satisfied nod.

Pecan pie took about an hour to cook and four hours to set properly. He'd attempted to usher her to bed at that point, but Rogue protested that she wanted to at least try the fruits of her labours. Ned looked down at the brown-haired girl whom he could not touch and his resolve melted.

Rogue made herself useful cutting up the peaches. Her slices weren't exactly uniform, but no one would mind if it was hidden under a decorative crust. He couldn't find any cutouts in with the utensils, so he used a paring knife to freehand a couple of vine and leaf shapes from the leftover dough. Slowly but surely, the coconut custard and peach came together.

An hour later, the timer chimed just as the sky turned gray along the edges of the horizon. The sultry aroma of sugared pecans wafted from the oven. Ned was able to beg fifteen minutes of cooling time before Rogue could wait no longer.

He cut two slices onto saucers and set them on the island. The unset pie was almost laughably gooey, but neither of them minded too much.

Rogue took her first bite and closed her eyes, letting out a muffled sound of delight. "This is what I needed." She said, a muted grin settling on her face. Stray white locks fell loose around her jawline, having escaped her bun during the cooking process. Her fingers were sticky from the peaches and her nightie was smudged from leaning against the floured counter, but her shoulders had lost their previous tension.

An observation tickled the edge of his tongue. He was tempted to voice it, yet Ned could tell the girl needed a moment. So he said nothing. He thought about Chuck and the marvelous power of a particular taste to transport you back in time to first time you tasted it, washing away all the ugliness that had happened in between. Ned took a forkful of pie, pushed away the analytical part of his brain that suggested leaf lard might have made for a flakier crust, and let himself remember sweeter times.

He spoke up as Rogue scraped her saucer with the edge of her fork. "How do you feel about it?" Ned asked, referring to her pie.

"Great. For once I feel like a person, not a time bomb." Rogue replied, licking the fork.

Warmed by her comfort, the corners of Ned's eyes crinkled slightly. "I meant the pie."

"It's not Nana's, but it'll do. Could try the cloves instead of allspice." She set the saucer down, bowing her head slightly. "Maybe we could give it another shot some night?"

He nodded, hooking his hands in his pockets. "Of course. It might take us a couple tries, but I'm sure we'll get it." With the promise of future pies hanging in the air, Ned started collecting dishes and stray containers. Clean kitchens meant happy cooks, and he didn't want to offend the owner of the kitchen he was borrowing by leaving a mess.

Rising to her feet, Rogue joined him. She mused aloud, "Wish we had a class like this here. We got three kindsa combat classes, but not one cookin' class."

Ned frowned, placing his load of dishes next to the sink. "Really?"

She nodded, reaching back to take her hair down. "Some of the students plan on stayin' on as X-Men, but what about the rest of 'em? You get kicked out or run away from home, you don't know how to fend for yourself."

"Yeah, that seems like a bit of an oversight." He commented quietly. Returning the ingredients they'd finished using back to their shelves, an idea stuck itself in his mind. This kitchen was a little small for a class to be taught in, but there was a commercial kitchen by the cafeteria that would work perfectly. The timing would be tricky - a class would have to take place sometime after lunch cleanup and before dinner preparation began. Perhaps after dinner, or with a very small group?

Rogue's southern lilt interrupted his musings. "Anyways, I appreciate the lesson."

He scoffed. "All I did was the crust. You did the hard work."

"Sure I did. But I think I should also be thankin' you for the other thing." Rogue bit her lip and smiled. "You were the one who told Bobby about the saran wrap, right?"

He looked down, smiling softly. "Maybe. Call me a romantic, but just because you can't touch doesn't mean you can't _touch_."

She flushed. "Well, whatever you said to him, thanks. It's nice to feel like a normal couple for once." With a longing glance at the rest of the pecan pie, Rogue wandered the kitchen, ferrying stray dishes on over.

Ned ran a sink to start in on the dishes. He rolled his sleeves back over his elbows to keep them from getting soggy. The ugliest bit of the lacerations had dried up or flaked off, leaving his wrists marred with a triple set of raw, pink lines outlined in sickly yellow. Still, he thought as he started in on the washing, it was an improvement.

Judging by her unsettled stare, Rogue might not have agreed. However, when she spoke up she asked a different question than the one he'd prepared for. "Seems like you have a lot of experience with this. The no-touching thing. Am I 's'pposed to believe that's a coincidence?"

His throat went dry. For a moment Ned considered dodging the question entirely, but that would draw more unwanted attention. Then he thought of how few people knew that Chuck had existed after her death. His chest swelled with compressed emotion. He wanted someone to know who she was - what she had meant to him, how she had brought him to life as surely as he had done for her. Well, perhaps not that far, but he wanted someone beyond his friends from the Pie Hole to know what a treasure she was.

"My girlfriend. She was- I knew- our mutations didn't mix well. Neither of us trusted other mutants, so we never studied our powers too closely. We just- if I ever- if she touched me, she'd die. I touched her once and something happened, and I knew it could never happen again." Ned explained. He kept his face pointed steadily down at the sink to mask his surely-twitching eye.

Beside him, Rogue drew a sympathetic breath. She picked up a tea towel and twisted it absently in her hands. "But you made it work, right? Even though it was dangerous?"

His shoulders fell. An odd sound, half-chuckle, half-sigh, escaped Ned's mouth. "Sort of. We made it five years."

"And then?"

Oh man. This would be a great sign for the teenager apprehensive about her relationship with a boy she couldn't touch. His mouth moved soundlessly, hands moving beneath the surface of the water with intentional gentleness. He found the words and spoke in a low, even voice. "Then, she touched me. And I killed her."

He felt her penetrating gaze on the side of his face, but he wasn't ready to look up. "Well? Was it an accident, or-?"

Ned shrugged. "Not really. There was a situation - somebody forced her and I couldn't- I couldn't stop it."

Footsteps beside him. Rogue appeared in his peripheral vision, her jaw tensing as she set about drying the dishes he'd finished. Her motions were sharp, quick. She set plates and bowls down with perhaps a bit more force than necessary, but she attempted respectful silence. Finally she could keep her thoughts to herself for no longer and she blurted out, "How are you to blame, then?"

He straightened up, reigning in his movements as the girl pressed closer. Though it had barely been a month since Chuck died, the night's events had drained his hysteria. All that was left was dry acceptance. "Look, I appreciate you trying to make me feel better, but there are some facts that I can't get around. My skin, my fault. If it weren't for me, she'd still be here."

"So what does that mean for Bobby and me? Should I break it off with him to keep him safe? My skin, my fault, right?" Her chin was lifted high in defiance, but her hands were folded tight across her chest.

"It's not that- it's more complicated- you can't just-" Tilting his head back, Ned curbed his babbling with a frustrated sound. "Is there anyone out there actively trying to murder you both?"

Rogue frowned, her gaze sweeping from side to side as she searched her memory. "No- well, not that I know of."

What a life in which they had to consider such things. He waited until her arm moved out of the way and set a clean pan in front of Rogue. "Then I say, go for it. There's precautions you can take and rules you can follow to balance out the danger. But if there are outsiders trying to use you against each other, that's when the scales tip toward the dangerous end and you might think of getting out." Slowing, Ned bit his lip and slid his eyes shut. "Then again, this is coming from a guy who dragged his girlfriend across the continent three times instead of following his own advice, so what do I know?"

Strong footsteps in the hallway which halted near the door. A gruff voice. "Doesn't anybody sleep around here?"

Ned glanced over his shoulder. Logan stood in the kitchen doorway, a black duffle slung on his shoulder, his hair mussed from the wind.

"Logan!" Rogue said. With a lingering glance at Ned, she straightened up and tossed her drying towel on the counter before crossing the kitchen. She slid her arms gently around Logan's neck, careful to rest them against his leather jacket.

He pressed a hand gently to her back, then released. "Miss me?"

"Mmm, nah." She stepped back and wrinkled her nose.

Logan scoffed, then tucked his head down to look at her. "How're you?"

"Good. Ned was teachin' me how to make a pecan pie. Y'ever had a proper pecan pie before?" Rogue slid around the island, her fingers trailing along the counter as she approached the gooey mess that was her pie.

Dropping his duffle on the ground, Logan shrugged. "Can't say that I have." He took a quick breath through his nose and nodded favourably, then fetched a saucer and fork of his own. Pausing near the pie maker, Logan glanced down at his wrists, which were buried in a sink full of suds. "Ned. How's the, uh-"

"Better." Ned replied swiftly, pressing his lips together.

Rogue looked from Ned, to his wrists, to Logan, then back to Ned's wrists. He could practically see her put three and three together. Her eyebrows began to climb and her mouth opened.

Logan cut her off in a brusque tone. "This lesson hadda take place at six in the morning?"

Ned ducked his head, conscious again of how small he felt in Logan's presence.

"Saturday. No class to worry about." Rogue replied, tilting her head to the side and smirking.

Rolling his eyes, Logan dug into the pie and gouged himself a large piece. "Ya better be rested if you're taking flying lessons with Ororo."

Her eyes went wide and she looked at the stove clock. It was quarter to seven. "That's today?" At Logan's amused nod, Rogue looked up at Ned, conflicted.

He shrugged and gestured with his head toward the door, the corners of his lips tugging back.

"Alright – um, thanks for the lessons, Ned. And for, well, everything." Flustered, Rogue fretted with her hands and offered him a grateful smile.

"My pleasure." Ned replied, his shoulders easing.

"See you later!" She disappeared down the corridor.

For a minute, the kitchen was quiet except for the sounds of dishes clanking in the sink and Logan shoveling down his slice of pie. The sun peeked over the horizon, painting a sliver of the kitchen gold.

Clearing his throat, Logan glanced in Ned's direction. "What's 'everything'?"

Ned looked out the window to the patch of sky distant beyond the trees. The sky was filled with a patchwork of clouds that fell in even rows, resembling silvery fish scales against pale blue. "Listening, I think. Understanding. And I showed her some kitchen etiquette – you know, how to move around people without worrying about bumping into them. Thought it might be helpful so she doesn't have to be so afraid of her skin."

A pause. "Good plan." Logan grunted, impressed. He set his saucer down. Drummed his fingers against the counter. "I get why the kid would be up if you're cooking in the middle of the night, but what's eating you?"

Drawing a slow breath, Ned considered his words. Of all the myriad things that had driven him from his bed, all the things he had seen and heard and done this evening – "I just have this tied-to-the-train-track feeling. Like the ground is beginning to shake and something is coming around the bend, but I can't see what it is - and there's nothing I can do to get out of the way."

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><p><strong>notes.<strong>

I tried. I tried to make this one chapter, but Rogue and Ned got out of hand, and then I threw Logan into the mix and everything spiraled. I'm cutting this off at a little more than 4200 words. The next chapter will be about half as long, but it should be up by Sunday evening EST.

Then, at last we'll have the promised interlude – which will contain an unprecedented flashback all the way back to Ned and Chuck's time on the run. More than little snippets and remembrances, the whole chapter will be a self-contained story. I'm really excited about it.

Let me know how you're feeling!

**Don't write the story. Live the story.**


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